


Echoes Spitting Out Their Trials

by Altenprano



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: A lot of angst with a bittersweet ending, ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN, Flashbacks, Gen, Panic Attacks, Time for more angst my friends, ep18 spoilers, mostly speculation, tw death, tw fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: The village of Blumenthal is exactly as he remembers it.Buildings—houses as well as shops—are clustered around a small town square, in the center of which is a small fountain that lets out a trickle of water, but is, for the most part, dry. Caleb can name everyone who lives in the town proper, and in which house they live, as well as their trade. It is not a large village, Blumenthal, and with a memory like his, it is only natural that Caleb remembers.-While traveling north, the Mighty Nein stop in the village of Blumenthal in hopes of purchasing more rations and healing potions, but the ghosts of Caleb's past, it seems, are not through with him, as he retraces his steps through his childhood home.





	Echoes Spitting Out Their Trials

Caleb doesn’t realize where they’re heading until it’s too late.

He knows where the Mighty Nein is headed—north, to the Pearlbow Wilderness, on another errand for the Gentleman—but he doesn’t stop and think about the route they’ll be taking to get there. The journey is long enough, and he knows they need to resupply near Rexxentrum, so of course the first village they reach is ideal, rather than pass through a city that may still be restless because of the war. They need healing potions and rations, and if they’re lucky, there is a village somewhere on the way that stocks both.

He curses himself for not realizing where they are headed.

In the back of the mind, he knows this road; the trees lining it are unchanged (it’s only been ten years since he last came this way), and they still stand proud along the beaten dirt road. The air is familiar too—he cannot say how, exactly—and picks at his memory with every breath he takes.

In his mind’s eye, he sees a young boy dart into the cover of the trees, laughing as his mother chases after him, her auburn hair coming undone from its handkerchief. He sees his friends, most of them freckled, as he’d been in his youth, racing after each other, some of them brandishing pinecones or snowballs—the memories meld together, spring bleeding into autumn and summer into winter—shouting words he cannot hear.

Those days were long ago, but walking down the road, everything comes flooding back, and Caleb is grateful for the weight of Frumpkin around his neck, which keeps him from drifting too far back into the past. He is grateful too, for Nott, who walks beside him and slips her hand into his, and he wonders if she senses him beginning to drift.

 _Thank you_ , he tells her, unable to find the strength for speech, and afraid that his voice might betray him if he is not careful.

She responds with a squeeze of his hand and a solemn nod.

The village of Blumenthal is exactly as he remembers it.

Buildings—houses as well as shops—are clustered around a small town square, in the center of which is a small fountain that lets out a trickle of water, but is, for the most part, dry. Caleb can name everyone who lives in the town proper, and in which house they live, as well as their trade. It is not a large village, Blumenthal, and with a memory like his, it is only natural that Caleb remembers.

He remembers the festivals held in the town square at the harvest, and at midwinters and midsummers, when shop fronts were adorned with ribbons and—depending on the season—wreaths of flowers. He remembers village dances, and market days, most of which were spent at his mother’s side, as he was a shy, awkward child. He remembers when he, Astrid, and Eardwulf were sent off to the Soltryce Academy, the townsfolk gathered to bless the shining stars of the village as they began their path to greatness. He remembers when he and his fellow students returned with their tutor, dressed in the uniform of apprentice warmages (red linen tunics with the Academy’s seal alongside that of the Empire, stitched in gold on the breast) to do away with their traitorous parents.

“Hey Caleb.” It was Beau who pulls him back this time, her voice catching his attention as she throws an arm around his shoulder. It is contact he does not like, but he allows it nonetheless. “You don’t look so good man.”

He shakes his head, as if that could shake the memories from where they are firmly lodged in his mind. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself—the rest of the group doesn’t know about his past, and for the time being, he wishes to keep it that way. Beau and Nott knowing is enough, and he feels he can count on them to keep his secret.

Caleb mutters under his breath, and, as subtly as possible, makes the correct gesture for Disguise Self at his side, using the magic to alter his features ever so slightly, so that even those in the village who know him well will look at him and see a stranger. He’s different from when he was last here—he’s taller, his features more pronounced, his hair no longer curled, but smoothed with age—but he knows that there are some who will see his mother in his face and recognize him as a Widogast, and as a servant of the Empire.

He is no longer a servant of the Empire. No longer does he wear the apprentice warmage’s uniform and execute men and women for crimes against an entity he cares so little for. He is a servant no longer. A murderer, perhaps, and a terrible man, to have believed in something—in _someone_ —so blindly, that he would kill his own parents, but he is no longer the property of the Empire.

The villagers will not see that, he is certain.

Those that remember will remember him as the boy who, without a question or doubt, set his parents’ cottage on fire, killing Una and Leofric. Whether or not he is hated for this act, Caleb does not know, and he doubts he wants the answer.

He knows who he is now, the disgraced son and last of the Widogasts of Blumenthal. He squandered the generosity and kindness of the village once, and he knows it does not go unforgotten. He is not welcome here.

He directs Fjord and Mollymauk to the shops where they are most likely to find the supplies that the Nein need, able to recall perfectly who runs which shop—the house of Gisa Haas, the village healer, just in the northeast corner of the square, for healing potions, and the shop owned by the Dörners for rations, near the town hall. He knows nothing will have changed, and even if it has, shops and houses in the main town are passed down from father to son, or mother to daughter, so if Gisa has died since his last visit here, Caleb knows her daughter Ilse will take her mother’s place.

He remembers Ilse—they played together as children—and he remembers her brothers, Moritz and Wilhelm, both of which were handsome young men when Caleb was still a boy. Their families were friends through their mothers, who met to discuss remedies and one bought from another, though there were often times when Una insist Gisa take a bundle of mallow or fennel free of charge, because the two women were friends as close as sisters.

If anyone in the village will recognize Caleb, it will be Gisa or Ilse, for they knew him best when he was a boy, and Gisa will recognize her Una’s eyes and know Caleb as Una Widogast’s son.

As Mollymauk, Fjord, and Jester see to acquiring supplies, Caleb finds himself wandering from the town square to Astrid’s house, where they had sat down to dinner, the meal that had been her parents’ last. Ten years later, and something has changed there, and at Eardwulf’s family home as well. While nothing ever changes in Blumenthal, Caleb suspects that these houses have been left untouched, as a heavy silence hangs around them. He does not know whether it is out of respect, or out of fear, that the houses have remained empty, or if the people of Blumenthal refuse to acknowledge what happened here.

A moment of silence— out of respect for the dead—and Caleb moves on, his hands in his pockets.

He follows one of the small roads, leaving the main cluster of buildings that make up the village proper, letting his feet carry him where they will. He is not sure how long he walks before he comes to a familiar plot of land.

He recognizes it all, the shed (decomposing from lack of care) where the swaybacked horse and plough were kept, the garden plot, which is now overgrown, weeds and wildflowers reigning supreme over the herbs that once grew there, and the small field, which looks as if it is trying to assimilate into the wood. He recognizes as well the structure before him, which once was a two room cottage with a thatched roof and plain wooden shutters, except now there is no thatch on the roof, and all that remains of the structure is a charred frame and a few walls, barely intact.

He remembers the last time he stood here—in this very spot, perhaps, though who is to say for certain?

He remembers the cool night air brushing against the back of his neck, while his cheeks and brow are warm from the glow of the fire that blazes before him. The fire before him is massive, having eaten its way through the dry thatching and beginning to stretch its arms down the sides of the house. One tendril reaches for the cart that bars the door, while another snakes in through the open window (his mother always sleeps with the windows open, even in the winter months), and a third finds its way to the doorframe. The smell of smoke fills his nose, and clings to his tunic. He knows he will have to wash his clothes well if he is to rid himself of the smell that he knows no self-respecting warmage should carry with them, or perhaps ask Astrid for the scent she wears, so he can cover up the smell long enough for it to fade on its own.

He remembers the way his hands shake, once the deed is done. His hands never shake when he is casting—many times, Master Ikithon praised him for his steady hands, for the care he gave to shaping and directing every spell—but now they do. Whether it is from fear, or the energy he sacrificed to make sure this fire would do the job quickly, he is not sure. His heart hammers in his chest, and he is trying not to breathe in the smoke. He knows the fire will not harm him, but the smoke does not obey the same laws, and so he must be careful.

He remembers watching the fire enter the house through the window, beginning to eat the structure from within. He hears his father’s voice, rousing his mother from her sleep, barking instructions that Caleb knows will be useless. The flames trace the outline of the window, and the door is blocked by a cart—he has designed this so that there can be no escape for the traitors, no last-minute reprieve for those that defy the Empire and seek her downfall.

There is a crack as a beam splits, weakened by the fire, and Caleb hears his mother cry out. She is trapped, and he hears his father call out her name. There is no chance of them surviving this, not with Una trapped, and Leofric unwilling to leave his wife behind. Still, Caleb can picture his father doing his best to free his mother, calling out her name to reassure her that he is still there, that he will get her, that everything will be okay.

And then his father is silent, suffocated from the smoke, or too tired to continue, and there is only Una.

Caleb remembers his mother’s screams. It is what brings him to his knees before the massive pyre that was once his childhood home, head bowed in shame as he considers for a moment, turning on Ikithon, as he realizes the lie he has just acted upon. He still has some magic left, he can still do it, he can throw a bolt of fire at the old man, and catch him off guard, but he does not know if he can fight Astrid and Eardwulf as well. He knows Astrid’s style well enough, all her tricks and deceits, that he is certain he will at least be able to tire her before she can finish him, but Eardwulf…He hesitates. Can he bring himself to hurt the boy he loves? If he fights Eardwulf, he knows it will be until only one of them is standing, and he does not trust himself to go full force against his love.

He kneels on the ground, sobbing as his mother screams, the flames and smoke claiming her, just as they claimed her husband. He cannot breathe; his chest feels as if it is being squeezed in a vice, his heart hammers in his chest, and his stomach rolls. He wants to retch, but he cannot. He can only kneel on the ground, sobbing and keening, descending into madness, as he supposes is penance for what he has done.

He feels a familiar hand on his shoulder, the grip strong and commanding, but he does not look up. He knows who he will see, and he does not want to see him, does not want to think about him.

“Caleb.”

He hears a voice speaking his name—not Ikithon, not Astrid or Eardwulf—and it takes a moment for him to place the tone, the accent. It does not belong here, it belongs somewhere else.

“Caleb, are you there?”

There is a weight in his lap, and small hands—paws—knead at his thigh, a strange urgency in the motion. When the world comes back into focus and the flames disappear from the front of his mind, receding to the edge where he knows how to better keep them in check, Caleb recognizes the tabby body of Frumpkin in his lap.

The fey creature lets out a worried _mrow_ and continues to knead at his thigh, tail flicking back and forth in agitation.

Nott is standing in front of him, a little taller than he is kneeling, and it takes a while for Caleb to register the concern in her eyes as she takes him by the hand. She gives his hands a gentle squeeze, and (keeping an eye on Frumpkin, careful not to step on the cat) leans forward to embrace him.

There is comfort in her embrace, and the smell of alcohol and dust that clings to her is enough to chase away the memory of smoke. She is murmuring something to him, smoothing his hair like a mother smooths the hair of a child after a nightmare. He does not know what she says, but, for one reason or another, finds comfort in her words.

“This is your village, isn’t it?” Beau asks, startling Caleb with her sudden appearance. The monk leans forward on her staff, letting the wood take her weight as she studies the remains of his parents’ cottage. “And this was…This is where _it_ happened?”

Taking a stuttering breath, he nods, and rises to his feet, pausing to let Nott release him. Frumpkin lets out an indignant _meowrp_ as he is displaced, but Caleb ignores him.

“ _Ja_ ,” he says, rubbing his eyes. He feels a tremor in his hand, similar to the way his heart continues to flutter in his chest, even after the worst of it is past. “This was my parents’ house.”

Nott has taken his hand in hers once more, and she gives it a light squeeze, as if to tell Caleb that she is at his side. She is a silent presence, but a strong one nonetheless, and for that, Caleb is thankful.

“I’m sorry,” Beau says, and Caleb can tell it’s genuine. He’s gotten better at that in the last few months, and now, a bit of Beau’s cocksure personality seems to melt away, and he can see that she is doing her best to be kind and gentle towards him, though he will argue he does not deserve it. “If I’d known we were going to pass through, I would’ve suggested we go another way, or that you meet us ahead or something.”

“It’s okay, Beauregard,” he says, using her full name out of habit. “You could not have known.”

“Molly and the others should have what we need. You and Nott can go ahead, and I’ll tell them where to find you,” she offers, and her brow furrows. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

He nods. “Yes,” he says, bending down to pick up Frumpkin and returning the cat to his customary spot around his neck. “I will be fine in no time, trust me, Beauregard.”

“Is it bad that I do?” she asks, her usual cocky attitude returning, and it almost makes Caleb smile, to see how quickly she makes the transition.

“Not at all,” he says. “I trust you too.”

She presse her lips together and nods, impressed with his answer, before leaving Caleb and Nott before the ruins of his parents’ house.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself—the air does not taste of smoke, but of crisp leaves and the impending harvest—Caleb addresses his parents’ cottage one last time before he continues north, in the company of the Mighty Nein.

 _Mother and father, I hope I will not disappoint you_ , he says, wondering (as he often did when he was a child) if their spirits could hear him, or if only the Matron of Ravens heard his appeal. _Mother and father, please forgive me_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. 
> 
> The title, as well as a lot of the inspiration for this piece, comes from the song Welcome Me, by the Indigo Girls. For some reason, it's a song I've come to associate with Caleb, and so it did have some influence in the tone of this piece. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your support!


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